


The Lines That Encase Him

by TheIronAmerican



Series: Tales of Society and Slander [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Cutting, High School, Other, Revenge, Self Harm, fuck society, i'm such a fucked up person, kill everything, school shooting, self injury, society
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 12:46:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1605686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIronAmerican/pseuds/TheIronAmerican
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically a crappy short story that i wrote when feeling particularly depressed and misanthropic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warnings for violence, school shootings, cutting, and parental neglect.  
> Yeah, i'm a scary, scary person. It would be torture if you were trapped in my mind.

Tales of Society and Slander

Murder and mutiny most foul the boy thought to himself gleefully as he felt the plastic handle of the flickblade tucked into his pocket, side by side with pencils. The blade had inflicted much worse wounds, and now, retribution was coming.  
He turned from the mirror and stepped across the clean expanse of wood flooring, much unlike his room’s usual state of mess. No papers covered the wood-veined brown, it was naked, vulnerable. No papers hid it from sight.  
He banged his head on the low doorways white-painted edging, just like he had done all year, and tripped over his backpack, an action of equal habituality. The viciousness of the muttered obscenities under his breath gave no clue to their regularity.  
His mother’s voice sang out his name, an irritated tune that reminded him of the disappointment and the shame of letters on a page. Letters just too far along in the alphabet for them to be pleasing, he thought. Rounding a corner to view the kitchen, he yelled, with unnecessary volume, that mantra  
“I’m coming”  
I’m coming, one second, just a little more time, I’ll work harder. Never good enough, never same enough, never sufficient to fit their ideals. That was the true story of his life. Anything and everything he was, it was never good enough. But all would be remedied now. A smile slid onto his face.  
“What are you smiling about?” his mother teased, “You’re never so happy this early in the morning”  
It was all an act. Because the second she saw the next assessment, the next societal test of his abilities, she would add it to his already low score and look at him again with new eyes. The yells, the tears, the ’why?’s. He wondered why these even mattered. He hated himself for being human. He hated them for how they made him feel.  
And feel, he didn’t want. Feel. He couldn’t feel. He shouldn’t.  
And his sister. Her fingers danced over a screen concealed beneath the red-stained wood of the kitchen. What an appropriate color choice. She had wanted blue or yellow, of course, but the table had always been there. And always would, by the looks of it. What a fitting color.  
That sister. Smelling strongly of acetone and artificial flowers. Of plasticity and Stores that charged fifty dollars for a shirt worth ten. Of being sold and perfectly fitting in to and with those standards. Those ideals. And she barely spared the boy a glance, except to insult him.  
“Nice shirt, are you trying to look homeless?”  
“God, those shoes are, like, sooooooo last year”  
“OMG, what are you wearing?”  
“Nice job on that test, dumbass”  
She was agression in human form, bitchy and petty, but still, a crusader for the church of fashion and rightness. And better a brainless crusader than a lost, filthy soul.  
To complete the look of domesticity is the father. The head of the family, plastic and one-dimensional. The only emotions he shows are disappointment and hate, and the boy sees both when he looks into those eyes.  
So he looks away. At his shoes.  
"Good Morning".


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand, there goes the family. Good riddance.

“Good morning”  
And feeling around in his pocket, he fishes out the flickblade, opens it, and goes straight for his sister.   
“Like, what are you doing, OMG, you, like, psycho-“  
And with one slash and a scream, she’s on the floor, blood dripping or the table and mixing with the organic lowfat strawberry yogurt that used to be her breakfast. The mother is just screaming.   
The father hasn’t even looked up from his newspaper.   
“Don’t bother your mother”  
The newspaper takes a few quick stabs to get through, before he sinks the blade into the throat, the surprised eyes are satisfying. And he feels whatever the hell that chemical is called, coursing through his veins. It feels great, like his veins are running mocha brown instead of red.  
But the screams continue. She is now frantically pushing phone digits with a trembling finger, and the dial tone sounds.   
“HELP”  
No one is coming to help you he thinks  
“This is for my life”  
He gives her stab to the stomach, as her hands are covering her face. She curls up in a ball, so he continues to frantically stab, even bringing out the other switchblade that was hidden in his jacket pocket. And finally, she stops moving, stops screaming. A few more for good luck, then he pulls out the blades (they come out with a sort of tearing noise; muscle is rougher than he thought).   
He walks over to the sink, turning on the faucet with his wrist instead of his blood-spattered hands out of habit. Not that he’s done this before, but he has made cookies, painted pictures. All with the same result: hands covered with a substance that he doesn’t want rubbed off on the kitchen sink.   
A trip back down the hall to collect his backpack and change clothes. The bloody garments stain and soil his naked floorboards. Taking their innocence, he supposes. Leaning back onto the neatly made bed, creasing the pale blue sheets as he fits his legs one at a time into the leg holes of jeans, stands up to pull them on, and sits down again to lace up the pair of combat boots that cost him all his birthday and Christmas money, but were worth it. Real leather, and it seems somewhat fitting to wear the skin of dead things on his feet as he goes out to kill some more.   
In front of the mirror, he sees his reflection, and he scowls at the collection of colors his body shows. More lines than a subway map, but less colors. There’s purple, pink, shiny white, and of course, the brown of his skin. And over that are ruts of red surrounded by a little swelling. So sue him, he doesn’t always bother to clean his blades and wounds all the time, but he can manage a bit of Neosporin and bandage most of the time.   
The lines encase him, entrap him. And he knows perfectly well whose fault they are. Everyone’s but his. And now, trapped in their web of intrigue, he has only one way to escape, and he’s going to bring with him as many of those bastards as he can.  
The lines are faint at most places, the blades only having passed through that skin once or twice, but his forearms, his hips and sides, his abdomen and the bottom of the ribcage, the inside of his thighs, and over his heart all boast of a good few white puckered wounds each, the white raised skin telling of a deep wound, a depressing mind state, a bad day, another ruined pencil sharpener and a long healing process, much more than the usual week.   
And as though advertising his goals, he dons a worn black shirt emblazoned with the words ‘Set the World on Fire’. The faces striped with war paint and flames will give him courage, the same as his trusty hoodie, the zipper that splits the word ‘Avenged’ from ‘Sevenfold’ and divides the winged skull in half. After zipping it up, he unzips it and ties it around his waist. His arms are bare for the first time in years.  
The world should see its shame.   
Locking the door as he leaves, he turns to see their elderly neighbor inquire about the morning’s screams. He rattles off a vague story having something to do with a rat in the kitchen, feeling a little sick as he is reminded of exactly what he has done. But he repeats to himself over and over exactly why he did it. Mentally and barely hears her inquiries about his scarred and cut-up arms. He only catches the inquiring silence that follows the words. He shrugs, and responds   
“Society”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention that this was inspired by Columbine?

The trip to school is filled with glances and whispers. Thank goodness, it’s only a few blocks before he reaches the gates, vaguely remembering the leaflets that had promised a safe atmosphere for a growing child and a well rounded secondary school education and a whole load of crap that had enchanted those corpse that now lay lifeless in the kitchen.   
And, of course, the stares. Children are innocent, and for this, they are cruel, he had once read. While some students are horrified, and others apathetic, while fewer still hiss insults in his ear as he walks by. A teacher calls his name, and he breaks into a run, hurdling up two flights of stairs and through the last few corridors that bring him to his locker. As per usual his friend is waiting.   
“Hey” he greets.   
This is as good a place to start as any the boy thinks. And he pulls out the big guns. A shotgun. Hell if he knows what type, and he pulls the trigger. Nothing.  
Undoes the safety  
Pulls the trigger

And again

And again

And he sees nothing and everything. The best high and the smoothest drug is without a doubt, killing. No wonder this is illegal he thinks. If only everyone knew how great it is. He has no idea why his father kept so much ammo in the house, but it’s serving its purpose now. Every time he stops to reload, he sees a little bit of reality. The panic, the horror, but it’s not like he cares. Because this is what true human is.  
He is superior, he has surpassed the bonds of society, the limits and mannerisms, and now he will escape their very law. Their infallible law. And he is laughing, a crazed maniacal thing that appears from deep within his throat, as he hears the sirens and sees the flashing.   
For some reason the fire alarms are going off, and the police’s loud voices are heard over the income, asking him to surrender or some bullshit like that, but he can hear the fear in their voices, and that makes him laugh even harder. Humans, he thinks, so afraid of what they can’t control.  
But he finally remembers how he was going to end this, so he gets up, and theatrically dusts himself off. To be honest, he had expected more blood, at least a little in this part, but his hands were clean, his clothing pristine.   
The switchblades from earlier are in his front pocket, and this time, there is no fumbling as he draws one of the identical blades, extends the blade, and presses the tip to line up with that spot right over his heart. The gun in his other hand dangles at his side for now as he composes himself, then makes his way to the roof.   
He’s thought this part out, and he is so high on self-importance and success right now that he sees no doubts. He does wonder why the heck they never put up a safety rail on place with such a great suicide potential.   
He steps onto the edge of the building. Don’t look down he reminds himself, not wanting to choke at last minute on that childhood fear of heights.   
He looks down anyways.  
So this is how it ends? He wonders.   
It would appear so. How anticlimactic. But instead of saying this, he raises the gun’s barrel to his lips, presses the blade to his skin, and voices his pre-planned words to the sun, the breeze, and assorted law enforcement below.  
“I’ll see you in hell”  
And with a whimper, he is gone.


	4. Chapter 4/Epilogue

Because though he tried to defy the system, he followed its plans word for word. Since he could see the system, he thought he could defy it, but he ended up in its clutches again. Because defying the system is intellectual. It is a process called self-awareness. But defiance of the system is not without sacrifice, it is simply without mindless and reasonless killing. Actions to defy the system must be carefully thought through. Vengeance can be taken, but only after clear, emotionless consideration of the situation.   
The boy had the right motives and the right mindset, but the wrong emotion. He should have removed all emotion from his decision making, and he went to unmerited extents. He punished the right people, but to the wrong extent.   
But this brings up the question, is it right to punish people for ideas and actions that society has influenced? Yes. This is how society’s teachers punish the innocent children who act on influence of their parents. And we can afford to play by the rules that society has set for a little longer. But soon, we will break free of the rules and ideals of society, and we will form a new reality based on the lack of one. Perception is merely sense-deep, mind-deep, and with perfect control over our minds, we will be able to bend the very fabric of reality.  
The new order is coming, and it will defeat Society’s restraints. Do not stand idly by but take right actions and join the ranks of the self-aware. They are building a new world based not on false perceptions of “reality” and lies, but if intellectual hedonism and doublethink and mindfulness. Based not on the teachings of fools, but those of writers, artists, and intellectual radicals. Gather up your mind and come to those who perceive true reality, for this is a chance that once made, is set in stone. Do not miss it.


End file.
